For my life. I mean, that’s what it is. I know a lot of people would look at my life and cry, “boohoo,” but I’ve been raised on this. I can’t be released out into the wild, I’ve been penned up my whole life. It would be inhumane!
As I’ve already mentioned, I won Star Struck, I think when I was twelve, and before that, I was on the Star Struck tour, taking home top spot three years in a row. And before that, probably a diaper commercial or two.
I’ve got a little sister running around somewhere on the set of Whimsy Me! and last I heard my mom just started a new fertility regime. Point is, my parents don’t just breed show ponies, they breed Champions. I don’t think The Gap and I would be a good fit.
I doubt she’ll call, not after the stunt I pulled with Rusty. But I still shoot Penny a text, 911.
Waiting on the phone to ring, each cell in my body draws in on itself. Shriveled, I’m a life raft without air. My body’s stuck in this state of perpetual pause, and the only thing that will breathe life back into it? The blessed ring of the GD phone.
Ring, Dammit!
I stare at my iPhone, the latest and greatest, one the public won’t get until Spring, Penny and I have had ours since last Christmas. One of the many perks of wearing half the Tween Pop crown.
With a tap, the screensaver of Penny and I in happier times comes up. I’m sitting on Penny’s lap. Impossibly happy, both of us dressed in twinning tween chic though we’re not related.
I’m wearing a teal jumper with a lacy collar. Penny’s is pink. Back when we shared, split everything 50/50. Both smiling, clear eyed. Two happy girls. Was that the last time we’d sung just for us?
Looking so much like sisters, now she just looks like the competition.
There’s so many features, but only one app I’m interested in. iSpy.
It’s on. A careful device I’d installed when I’d first felt the winds shifting.
A text pops up. I’ll be right over.
Meet me in the makeup trailer.
Always a backup singer, never the lead in my own group? That shit ends tonight.
****
“I really don’t want to do this.” Penny says.
Sitting across from me, she watches in the mirror as I line my eyes in midnight black.
“Too much,” she says.
“It’s never too much,” I say and blow her a heavily glossed kiss.
I’ve got about ten minutes to convince her and with that resting bitch face, I know she’s not going to listen to a word I say. Whimsy’s got us so far on opposite sides, I look like the enemy. But, so does she.
Before this place fills with the pit crew of Penny Candy, makeup artists, hair stylists I know there is only one person she’ll listen too. Maybe the words coming directly from Whimsy’s liver lips will convince her.
“If you don’t believe me, listen for yourself,” I say and push play.
I’ve been recording Whimsy for weeks, just waiting for it, because the storm is coming. My stomach turns when I hear his voice but her face remains unchanged as she listens.
“Did he just say not to overshadow me? What do you need me to do?” Jealousy flares briefly before her eyes fill with tears.
It’s then that I realize, she’s been spoon-fed the Pro-Penny propaganda from our trusted mentor.
Lulled into platitude by my forced immaturity, Whimsy forgot the number one rule. Girls gossip.
****
“Whim,” He answers.
Wide eyed, we look at each other. “Hey boss. Need approval on this costume.”
“Send me a pic,” He sounds distracted, but I need his full attention.
“This one I need you to see, I don’t want to overshadow pretty Penny.”
At the mention of her name, she leans forward.
“Glad to see you were listening. I’m on my way over.”
When we were thirteen, our shared trailer felt like a never-ending sleepover, now it just feels never-ending. Under her watchful gaze, I zip up my thigh-high boots and smoke.
Penny dressed in the regulation virginal costume, eyes me up and down. Can of Febreze in hand, she blasts smoke rings with the flowery spray. As we wait, I pull the terrycloth robe a little tighter.
Underneath, I’m wearing my special outfit.
A naughty girl’s school outfit, sans panties and bra. What there is of it, isn’t Whimsy approved, but it’ll do.
.There’s pounding on the trailer door. Exasperated, Whimsy yells. “Candy! Why’s this door locked?”
“Don’t come in, I’m changing!” I yell.
My hearts pounding a mile a minute, I feel like I can’t swallow but I meet her frightened eyes and leave it up to her. She can be the company man, speak up now and say, ‘I’m here Phil.’ Or be on my side for once.
More knocking and she nods, just once. Anticipation, like I’m about to get caught cheating on a test clutches my stomach as I wordlessly hand her my phone. Either she’s heard enough to be my accomplice, or my savior. Maybe, she’ll storm out and demand equal rights for the partner that’s made her famous. I mean, why split up a good thing right?
She takes the phone without a word and disappears behind the curtain.
I let him in. With my back to him, I ask. “Hard work, ambition? None of that counts for anything, huh?”
“Oh Candy. Don’t be like that. Maybe next tour, it’s you they ask for.”
“They won’t Mr. Whimsy. Because I’m a phony. Too molded into a syrupy sweet mold, I’m no longer even attractive to the prepubescent boys that used to jerk off to me. It’s the perpetual child state you try to keep me in. Binding my breasts, dumbing me down, hiding my light under a bushel, for Penny’s to shine. I can continue to put in 16-hour days until I’m thirty. Nothing will change will it?”
“No, unfortunately not. Yes, you can sing circles around Penny and have, now take off that robe and let me put my stamp of approval on your outfit.”
I can only imagine that he’ll drop dead of a heart attack when I feel his meaty fingers dig into my arm. He spins me around, and all I can think is always a backup singer, never the lead. Hauling me close, he grabs my chin and his thumb smears my lipstick. “What’s this, a nervous breakdown?”
Filled with disgust, he asks. “When are you going to start listening?”
“Oh Mr. Whim, I’m always listening. What I’m not hearing, is when do I get the lead?”
I let the robe fall open.
His face is stony when he says. “This…is toning it down, Candy? Where’s your binding? You look…”
“Grownup? Maybe cause I am. Too old to be playing a high school kid. When are you going to let me go?”
“That skirt is way too short. Turn.”
I do and watch over my shoulder as he bends and peeks under the skirt. Somewhere, I imagine a click going off.
Looking at the tent in the front of his pants, I say. “Maybe you ought to tone that down.”
And he realizes just what it is he’s doing. An old man peeking beneath a school girl’s skirt, made even more lecherous by his desire to Make me look younger!
“You were wrong, Mr. Whimsy. Negative attention is just as good as positive.”
Horrified, he backs out the trailer door. When the door swings shut, I say. “You can come out now. Did you get it?”
Penny appears from behind the curtain. Impossibly pale, she hands me the camera. “I can’t believe that’s what he thinks of me.”
“Hey. I’m sorry you had to hear all that, but thanks for this. It’ll be great insurance.”
“Are you kidding? I sent myself a copy, if you don’t use it, I will.” She says.
“Aww. Thanks for looking out for me.”
Her face changes, and the real Penny peeks around the carefully arranged G-rated mask for a moment. “Don’t kid yourself. You are competition and I want you gone.”
She turns in a cloud of body spray and I watch my cohort and partner for the last eight years walk away. Too busy rewriting our dance numbers into solos to say
goodbye.
Freedom is a dirty word. It implies that we make our own choices, other than take what is handed to us.
I attach the pic to a text. How’s that for toning it down?
Underneath, I add. And I’m taking Rusty with me.
****
Sellout Magazine
Hot Gossip
Breaking, just in. Penny Candy is no more. I repeat, Penny Candy is no more. Whimsy’s mega successful tween birds are no more. Maybe it’s better for everyone’s dental health, they were a little too sugary for our taste. And one half of the duo agrees. It seems that Candy Cane is flying the coop under suspicious circumstances. With a mysterious name change…cringe. The singer formerly known as Candy Cain will now be known as NovaKain. This won’t hurt a bit, I’m sure.
A publicist for Whimsy Entertainment had, ‘no comment.’
Chapter 1
NovaKain
I’d like to get back to normal. Get a bite to eat, a long soak in the tub, and a solid fuck. Is that too much to ask?
Maybe, but it’s the little things I look forward to. After a tedious day shooting retakes on the video for Gimme a V! By Retake #42, I’m way past over it. The only way to keep these hips shaking is by repeating the mantra, I’ve got two days off and Rusty’s not going to be able to walk when I get done with him.
Without the Wonderful World of Whimsy endorsing, supporting, and promoting me, I’m out here alone. Which means I’m away more than I’m home. I’ve got to be, if this doesn’t pan out, our ship is sunk. We’ve been living good, but Whimsy money only goes so far. Especially, when I took most of it and invested in what I thought was a sure thing. ME.
My albums finally finished. Not a duet, or an ensemble, but an actual solo. All by myself, I did that.
Reviews are trickling in, at a snail’s pace.
The lights go down, she closes her eyes and when she sings, all troubles are forgotten. Her sultry voice soothes just like her name. NovoKain’s a long way from Whimsy.
No matter what happens, I’ll always have that. Thank you, Village Voice.
A few more reviews like that and Whimsy’s bullshit blackballing will not be worth a shit.
With no studio to back me, the album was a substantial risk. But it was the only way I could think of to get iDisc to promote me. According to their jacked-up algorithms, NovaKain is a straight up nobody. Someone that’s not worth their overpriced ad space until I’ve got about five hundred thousand downloads under my belt. No matter how many iGuys I talk to that fact doesn’t change. Whimsy’s thumb is still trying to get into my pudding and with his shows dominating every network, I pretty much have to die to get noticed in this town.
But I did catch someone’s eye. Rebel Records, an Indy Label came knocking. Though it was in secret, with no mention of it in Sellout, they signed me for a tour. The executives said something about minimal exposure, less risk. Personally, I think they didn’t want their brand slapped all over my ass just in case Penny was the one with the talent the whole time. Ha-ha.
As long as they’ve been looking my way, I’ve been walking, talking, even singing a certain way. Their way. Maybe I’m a sellout, conforming like this but it’s time. I’m ready to be a grownup.
I’ve got Rusty to feed and my beer-can man prefers caviar. He always says, ‘You just make the money and I’ll take care of everything else.’
And believe me, he does. He fucks like a beast, seriously.
That’s why I’ll wear the gowns, though they make me look like Chubby Barbie and I’ll toss in some Penny Candy Rainbow sprinkles like I’ve been asked to do. It’s not hard, I need those familiar notes like a fish needs water. That’s the only way to stay relevant so when iDisc finally caves, my fans will remember me. Ensnared in my own catch-22, the only way I keep singing is remembering it’s better to be caught than not to be hunted at all.
Just don’t do anything stupid and fuck it up, I think, as I roll up the windows and lock the jeep.
After planes, trains, and automobiles, 6822 Mulholland Drive feels fabulous. Perched high above the smoldering city below, our love nest always feels like a sanctuary. With thoughts of welcome home kisses under sheets that smell like home, I run up the walk, ready to fuck the weekend away.
But a locked door is never a good sign.
Chapter 2
NovaKain
Searching through my keyring, I check to make sure this is even my house. It is, I haven’t been gone that long. Same dusty purple door with Jack Skellington’s face painted on it. Last year’s Halloween project, only Rusty got drunk and used permanent paint. When he asked why I left it, I stroked his ego, just a bit. “Someday a Rusty Steele original will bring in millions.”
Rusty might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he means well.
It’s the right house, I just don’t know when we started deadbolting doors.
It’s dark and quiet inside, and as usual, Rusty hasn’t cleaned a thing while I was away. The place needs a good airing out, there’s a certain smell in the air. I sniff again and try to place it. Fish?
Did we get a cat?
Highly doubtful. Rusty’s allergic to pussy.
Bags forgotten by the door, I cross the living room and walk to the very edge of the world. Right where the two glass walls meet in a seamless point. Down below, twinkling lights blanket the city of Los Angeles like a carpet of fairies, busy at work. It’s peaceful at the top.
I lean my head against the glass and for what feels like the first time in a month, I exhale. I’m home.
And that’s when I hear it.
Moans coming from down the hall. Sounds like Rusty’s watching a little porn without me. Wine forgotten, I grab the pint of Rusty’s favorite, mint and chip ice cream. A menthol blowjob sounds like a nice change of pace.
Chapter 2
When confronted with the worst, the absolute inconceivable, I did nothing. Just stood at the threshold of our boudoir, eyes transfixed by the bouncing balls. Watching, like it was Wimbledon. There was no angry outburst, no cry of dismay. The most I could muster after two weeks on the road, putting in sixteen-hour days-in fuck me boots-was a sad face.
Looks like broken strings and missed beats are the least of my problems today.
A bubble wells up inside of me and pops with an audible, this can’t be happening.
But it is. I’d know those tattoos anywhere. I should, I paid for them. Snippet of possible song lyrics flit through my mind even as my stomach clenches.
Good ideas turn into bad ideas with practice, just like intentions.
I don’t have to wonder whose bright idea this was.
Rusty. That’s who I’m laying my money on. Always walking around, wielding his weapon like a bayonet. It was just a matter of time until he tripped and speared some random pussy.
This is what you get.
Did you really think the guy that took your virginity while his buddy’s played Xbox in the next room was husband material?
Husband, a serious word that always amused him. Anytime I brought up the piece of paper, usually after adding his name to my checking account. Or giving him the entire advance from Rebel Records so he could buy this bungalow. 2.8 million dollars, and he didn’t even have to put a ring on this finger to get it.
I can still hear that deep chuckle in his chest when I’d brought it up. ‘Husband? Honey, you’re not wife material.’
I wonder if she is. Wife material, I mean.
My eye falls on a wet spot in the middle of my favorite sheets.
They’ll have to be burned.
Along with the distressed Beachwood frame, the couples sleep number mattress-that he had to have-the entire bed, preferably with him in it.
That’s about all that crossed my mind as I took in the betrayal.
That and… He’s breaking the rules!
That unspoken law between lovers and friends where I give you my heart and you promise not to throw it into the mosh pit.
What happened to undying
affection? Now that my star is dimming, am I still not the one?
Churning emotions threaten to take over. Thoughts of being second best, not good enough, unlovable, all rage within me. Self-doubt bangs against the surface, begging to be let out and the tight lid I’ve kept on my emotions starts to crack.
A litany of words cascade through my mind, and my imagination reaches for them eagerly, grabbing the most apt. Lines and then verses begin to form. Not surprisingly, all about the cheater with the dirty feet before me.
Feet, cheat…lying, backstabbing, takers.
I’m disgusted by how fast this song is writing itself, yet I know, deep down in my soul. It will be a hit. I’m not the first to walk in on deceit and I won’t be the last.
See? Another good line, begging to be belted out at the top of my lungs.
My breakdown is interrupted by a position change. Rusty’s got a cramp. Did I mention he fucks, for hours?
And why is he flexing? Does he do that with me?
I tilt my head and watch as he enters her from below. That’s a great cock.
Her ass bounces on it like a quarter. Higher and higher, I can’t wait for the mid-air flip.
Rusty’s feral grunts make me squirm and I realize, on some sick twisted level, I’m aroused. But it’s a jealous arousal, the worst kind. Forced to stand by and wait your turn in line while your dick enters another. This is not a community cock!
The space under my eye twitches in time to my gnashing heart. Feral and unhinged, it would like to tear every appendage from Rusty’s body. Starting with his timeshare dick.
Don’t mind me, I think, and lick drips from the side of the container while I wait. Minty fresh. When his sterling silver cock ring, monogrammed with my initials, strokes her G spot, she brays like a dying cow. It’s good, but not that good. A scoff that ends in a sob escapes me and that’s when he opens his eyes.
Dark chocolate filled with lust. Just not for me.
I can only imagine what I look like. A temptress with tapered cat eyes and blood red lips. My gray locks falling to my waist.
I’d gone my whole career without dying my hair, until I was slammed by the media as being ‘too mainstream.’
Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1) Page 2